The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER VIII

Through the dusty mist of the growing industrial realms and downslopes of textile, Bombay somehow had managed to grow warmer, so much so that one would step out and wouldn't return home the same person. In the balconies of houses on buildings, where the sun took a direct seat in their homes, women laid vegetables and fruits to dry for mixing homemade pickles; or batters of lentils to make poppadoms.

And even though the fishermen had their time at sea, the other people on land pulled carts to buy scraps, sell vegetables through tight lanes, some with baskets of fish on their heads, and then the dabbawalas on their bicycles pushing their bells that rung throughout the area; tring! tring! 

Beedi butts rolled and tumbled throughout the dry, evaporated city. Dust flew like the free wind, some twirled like a storm and dismantled just as quickly. Wrappers of toffees or wafers or newspapers stained with oils from the street vendors littered the locality as commonly as air. Nevertheless, the city sped on as on wheels, spinning so fast that it seemed the friction caused the city to catch fire. The trains honked: Boom! The buses blew: Bhoop! The other vehicles just beeped: Beep-Beep! And the world went on in larger strides as ever.

To pretend that the world was as it was, and nothing much ever changed, and every element of nature worked harmoniously, Rustom walked to work every morning. The cafè didn't stand too far, only a couple yards away from the lane where he never really felt accustomed to. But he preferred walking to that place that helped run his house, put bread on the table, pay bills, buy cigarettes, and run along with life. He sat at the uncomfortably hard chair where he rested his buttocks on thick cloth folded not to hurt his bones, only so because it was his favorite place to be. He felt comfortable there, more so than home. He was engraved with the belief as a child; his father mumbling and teaching mantras of life:

A man's place is never at home. He must get up before the sun and reach work with the sun and must only return when it is dark. It is what it is, as to what the Gods have said.

At times, he wished only to stay there and not anywhere else, neither home. Because as a child, much like Rumi, he would spend his hours learning and staying and serving, without any question. And he did get tired, frustrated and conflicted, but never, never did he even think of rebelling. It was not taught to him.

Very often, it felt that the questions he had as a child, his dull & obedient youth were stuck in that building, like a haunting ghost; lingering under the tables and chairs, above the ceiling fans, inside drawers and containers, behind the frames of ancient images of his parents, Irani paintings and poetry, resting in the old, old kitchen- not to mention the beach where he took his son for walks, the church, the sunsets, the humidity and the sands at the shores; everything, as if the entire area was set like a museum of uninvited memories.

But somehow, the place was more than it looked. Somehow, it was better that way, quiet and settled and locked up, as if the keys were lost. It was comfortable that way- to stop and look every day and not relive, but just watch as an exhibit.

He realized that's what life was- silent and stubborn, almost nonexistent, such that one had to at times shake themselves like an alarm clock. And once they'd realize that life did happen, it'd strike back, like the whirl of a storm taking away all the peace with it.

He sat on the desk where a handwritten label attached said: Pay here. Every morning, he went into the kitchen and watched the men- a young and an old who worked and lived there, in the kitchen itself, with mattresses on the floor. Since they lived there, they left it clean as well and organized the place as per their job description mentioned. They both cooked but were strictly trained by Rustom only to bake the buns and churn the butter the way he'd shown them. It was his father's recipe.

By the time the sun watched over the city, inch by inch, the tea would be brewing like the bubbling cauldron of a mighty witch in a huge pot. The drink would be bright, thick- very, but also sweet. It was meant to be eaten with the Bun Maskas. And Rustom would have a glass every morning, and about seven throughout the day, before and after meals. It astonished him at times, he had never even tasted the tea his wife brewed, or if she brewed at all. He didn't know at all what she drank, as most of the time, he'd be at work while she made the home a livable place, cooked- chopped and fried.

Over time, the cafe that meant perhaps a house of memories to him became a place of temporary exile for the customers, where outcasts came and sat and became friends with each other. It was what the place was known for, a retreat from the world. Some men worked the whole day in inescapable governmental jobs and would spend the last couple of moments of the sunset here. Then some women hosted their women's meet or kitty parties there. Rustom knew many who had come there and met and tied the knot- where people came as customers and left as lovers. He'd see many men buy gajras (garlands of mogras) and tie them on their wife's hair, buy single buds of rose; some bought proper boxes wrapped with silvery gift wrapping papers (if they could afford).

Those sights at times made Rustom stop and watch and think; he'd never bought flowers for his wife or any kind of gifts. No matter how many anniversaries or birthdays went by. All they did to celebrate was eat food that she'd make- as usual. Of course, with Rumi on the table.

Rumi was always there. From the beginning, ever since he squealed with tears for the first time, he was there. His presence somehow had always been a shadow, looming like that of a dragon's. It would be known. He was pampered, of course, but only as much as he knew what reality was. What Rustom did from the first day of being a father was read to his son, books that were not written for children specifically, because his shelves didn't have any. He'd read aloud to Rumi until one day, Rumi was taught the alphabets in English, and he was then expected to make the journey alone, to learn and to encounter the life of others, to travel, to understand what it meant to be lost.

Of course, Rustom never thought that his child was lost. He thought of his child much, proudly, expecting things that he shouldn't have, but only to make himself satisfied, to eradicate worry, he did. And now that Rumi was all grown and new, things were changed and gone, gone.

It was astonishing, he thought, how one morning when the eyes opened, nothing remained the same. The past would drift away, and somehow, everything that happened before didn't matter.